


But this is gonna take me down.

by dinnafashnow



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinnafashnow/pseuds/dinnafashnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Yeah. And we kind of enjoyed it, but we were quite drunk. You know. So."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	But this is gonna take me down.

**Author's Note:**

> A direct follow-on from [this piece](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2687804). I always meant for it to go here, but I got too excited about posting yesterday with what I had so far. Plus the first part ended up working cutely on its own, so for prudes, you're welcome to stop there. For you depraved sorts, COME ON IN.

"Stop."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I don't. Tell me."

"I don't either, though," she replied, reaching her hand up to the back of his neck to pull him back down to her.

It would happen like this. She would reach a moment of weakness, whether lonely or tired or drunk, and that's when she would finally reach for him, or at least permit him to succeed in his reaching out for her. Because she was so beautiful, and he'd decided he would never stop reaching. Sometimes playfully, sometimes a little cheekily, sometimes with very clear intent, but always reaching. He wanted her. He'd had her. He wanted more of her. She had him.

But then, he did know why. It was the same reason he'd heard, too. Well-meaning whispers about being careful, and dangerous ground. About unknown ratings, and unmeasured successes. About working relationships, and eight or so novels. He just chose not to care. He was a grown man with a sensible head on his shoulders. Except for when he was around her, perhaps. No. Even then, she brought out the best in him. She played with him. She made him feel invincible. She drove him mad.  


And here she was again, beneath him on the couch, both of them drunk on wine and the giddiness of their performances and maybe each other, too, because sometimes he felt drunk just being around her, and sometimes she let him. Her hands were at the waistband of his jeans, fingers more than likely making quick work of things. He had her pinned under him, her thighs trapped between his knees, but she was straining against him, trying to jut her hips up against his. Her wriggling had hitched her dress up around her thighs; it was too dark for Sam to see but he could feel the fabric bunching behind his elbows.

It was too dark to see, but he wanted to see everything.

"Can I turn a light on?"

"Why?"

"Because you're gorgeous." She snorted in response, sliding her hands up under his t-shirt and pinching his side. He flinched away from it and frowned down at her in the dimness. "I mean it, though."

"You don't need a light on, you've seen it all."

"Yes, but I like to see it."

He shifted his weight onto one elbow, freeing his other arm. He lifted his fingers to the neckline of her dress and undid the top few buttons down her chest, enough to loosen the dress, enough for him to push the material over her shoulder. He leaned down and pressed his lips against her collarbone, and in reply she turned her cheek against his temple, grazing her teeth against the shell of his ear. He left kisses along her collarbone to her neck, biting down lightly on delicate skin. She exhaled sharply, her breath warm against his ear, but then she was wriggling under him again, turning her head out of reach.

"Easy, rehearsal tomorrow and it's not quite scarf weather."

"So practical. Always so practical."

He pecked her on the lips quickly, briefly, despite her rising to meet him, despite her fingers digging into his sides, and instead eased himself backwards and down over her body until he could clearly make out that hitched up dress. He bit her thigh, instead. She yelped and grabbed at his shoulders, hitching her knees up against his sides.

"No, come back up here."

"But I want a taste." He bit at her thigh again for emphasis, a little higher. A little closer.

"Babe, I need you."

"Manners?"

"Don't make me hurt you, Sam."

"You might anyway, I need a minute. I've... uh, I've had a fair bit of wine."

"Oh. No problem."

She slid off the couch and onto her knees in front of him, and he was fairly certain in that moment that she was correct and there wasn't going to be any problem at all. He swung himself around and sat up, easing up off the couch for a moment as she pulled at his jeans. She was quick, ducking her head and kissing his cock, which twitched against her lips in response. Nope, no problem. He inched forward on the couch as she wrapped cool fingers around him and took him into her mouth.

"And you wouldn't let me turn a light on."

She gave a short laugh in response, her mouth full of him, and the buzz of her noise against his skin made him hiss inward sharply. He threaded his hands through her loose hair and let them rest gently against the back of her head, resisting the urge to pull her closer, deeper.

He couldn't see much but the messy blur of her dark hair. Thinking about seeing her more clearly gave him a sudden vivid reminder of the first time she'd done this, only a short while ago. It had happened at work, in their shared trailer. He'd just rolled into his great kilt. It wasn't the first time she'd watched him pull off that feat, but that day was the best job he'd done of it to date. He was so happy with himself that he'd pushed her back against the bench and snogged her before she could protest, but she evidently hadn't been in the mood to protest, anyway. She'd leaned into his kiss, grabbed handfuls of his kilt up in her fists, then forced her way off the bench and spun him around, so he was the one with his back to the bench. He'd been so floored by her lack of hesitation that he'd become putty in her hands. She'd poked her tongue at him and then slid down the length of his body, ducking her head and disappearing under his kilt.

He'd been very glad the guys didn't come to see why he wasn't playing scrabble that morning.

"Okay. Okay, all right. All right now, vixen, on your feet."

Sam got a hold of her upper arm and encouraged her up. She did so a little unsteadily, using his bare knees as her anchors and pushing up off them. The large amount of wine they'd drunk earlier was still clearly showing its effect. Once she was on her feet, he ran his hands up her thighs and hooked his fingers into her knickers, pulling them down almost effortlessly. She rested a hand on his shoulder and stepped out of them. He raised her dress and kissed her hipbone, then leaned forward against her before getting to his feet—and casually sweeping her over his shoulder, as she burst into vaguely outraged giggles.

"Bedroom."

He punctuated the statement with a smack to her bum, balancing carefully and shaking his feet out of his jeans as they slid down his legs, crumpled on the floor next to Cait's underwear. His other hand became quickly occupied with keeping her ankles pinned together, making sure she couldn't accidentally kick a hole in his hallway wall as he purposefully strode bare-arsed down it. He'd kept his hand where it'd landed though, firstly for stability's sake, but quickly transitioning to stroking her gently, as though winning over a half-wild thing. He slid his palm down over her dress and then back up underneath it, walking his fingers up the inside of her thigh and ignoring the gleeful swear words she was lobbing in his direction as he casually eased a finger inside her. The swears turned to a shriek.

They'd reached his room, so he carefully dropped her off his shoulder, across his bed. She sprawled out and brought her knees up—together at first, and then, as she found her footing, easing gradually apart. She eyed him through the space between.

"If you don't give me something a little more substantial than that, I'll thump you."

"A _little_ more substantial?" He pouted, crawling onto the bed over her, tugging the shoulder of her dress back down until she pulled her arm free of it. He pulled her bra strap down then too, exposing her breast. He ducked his head and teased at her nipple with his teeth until she moaned. She didn't seem too bothered about a witty response, then. He grinned and glanced up at her.

"And _I'll_ do the thumping, thanks." He shifted a little and then slid in, sure and fast, his hipbones coming to rest against the backs of her thighs. She moaned again, her head lolling back against the messed bedsheets.

"A _little_ more substantial," he smirked. She smacked the mattress.

"Will you _shut up_?"

"Never."

But he did, focusing his efforts instead on getting _her_ to make as much noise as possible. Her noises had the ability of hitting him right in the gut, or lower, and each noise she made drove him to thrust into her harder, until she yowled. She clung to him then, one arm wrapped around the back of his neck, her forehead pressed tight against it as well, her breaths ragged against his skin. He finished quickly after, spurred on, and stilled to feel her thighs trembling against his sides. His arm buckled as he tried to lower the both of them onto the bed, and instead he fell on top of her awkwardly.

"Oof!"

"Sorry."

"'s fine. Mmm. No, don't move, I like your weight."

"I'll never move again."

"Ow. Wait, I can't quite breathe."

He laughed, still a bit breathless himself, and rolled off. She followed, though, sprawling a leg over one of his and wrapping her arm over him. He wriggled his arm under her shoulder and turned his head to hers, kissing her lightly. Again. Again, not so lightly, and she pulled herself up against him more firmly, more closely. He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

"We should watch ourselves more often," he whispered conspiratorially, and she blushed in response.

"Maybe less wine next time," she said, and he accepted her casual agreement that there would be a next time.

"Maybe. Tomorrow may hurt."

"I'll get some water," she replied, squeezing herself against his side again before easing off the bed and heading back down the hallway, shrugging her arm back into the sleeve of her dress.

She filled two glasses of water in the kitchen, making her way back to his room, considering whether it was timely enough to catch a cab back to her place. It'd be nice not to rush around before work the next day. She paused at the doorway. He'd moved, righting himself on the bed and burrowing under the blankets. His curls were splayed out over the pillow, and... she walked over bedside the bed, listening for his breathing. He may have been an actor, but those steady breaths weren't faked. He wasn't that good.

She placed one of the glasses of water on his bedside table, taking a sip from the other one. Then again, tomorrow was just a rehearsal day, and nobody else had seen her today. She took another big gulp of water and then set her glass down next to his. She stole a clothes hanger from his wardrobe and pulled her dress off over her head, unfastening her bra, hanging them both on the back of his door. She crawled into his bed, fitting herself against him, feeling him adjusting just a fraction to accommodate her. The shift of a leg. The slouch of a shoulder. The steady breathing continued.

"Trouble," she whispered, closing her eyes.


End file.
